


Pretenses

by Lyumia



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Not Beta Read, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 19:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18610966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyumia/pseuds/Lyumia
Summary: In the dark they would pretend. He, that he was kind. And the other, that they were loved.





	Pretenses

**Author's Note:**

> Once in a blue moon I'll post something for the elder scrolls fandom. This time it's an unnamed half Dunmer/Ulfric one, so buckle up your bootstraps because it's gonna be weird, disoriented, and have a lot of typos ;u;

When the troops fell into uneasy slumber and those on watch had their eyes fixated on the darkness within the trees, his tent flap would quietly rustle open. He would keep his back towards the visitor, feigning not to hear the soft crunch of boots over gravel. Hands would rest on his shoulder, gliding over thick furs and then dip between the fabric to touch his starved skin. Closing his eyes he leaned back into the smaller frame. Long brown hair fell over him as chapped lips ghosted over his forehead. He would turn, when the chaste kisses began to return the warmth into his body. Into his heart. His little visitor would comply with moving towards the bed rolls, hiding a wince as if they weren't sore from bloody battles and long marches. 

He would undo clasps of the others harness in the dim candlelight. The elf’s arms had become scarred with old wounds. Battles that plagued his heart to remember, so he forgot in the smell of flowers and mountain air trapped within locks of damp hair. His mouth found the sensitive skin of the tip of a pointed ear. The following gasp was music in the tense air, but he could not bring himself to slow this time even with wary ears nearby. 

He pulled back, catching a glimpse of his visitor biting the bottom of his fatty lip. The sight caused his own tongue to flick over his lips, teeth searching out and nibbling on the plump flesh. A harsh breath was silenced when he pressed his lips to the other’s. 

When the need for air became apparent green eyes fluttered open, regarding him silently. Somehow those eyes managed to be both more and less unnerving than their breathes, for the shape resembled the pointed features of an elf yet their color did not. A deep blue, like the shallow waters of Windhelm. His visitor reached out, hesitantly, sliding furs off his shoulder and beginning to undo the clasp of his armor. Fingers trembled. From anticipation or fear he did not know, for he rarely spoke during their encounters. Still, in his heart he hoped it was only because it was the first time his little elf had taken such initiative. 

Perhaps he was sick - in more ways than one - for taking advantage of such a young thing hardly old enough to be a soldier. Yet he could not bring himself to care as he began to urge the other to undress. Gently he set aside the single, obvious sign of his heritage. The patterned scarf was folded neatly. He traced the hand woven patterns before continuing. Each sliver of skin was its own reward, each touch a conquest. Despite his attempts the elf only bit his trembling lips, halting harsh, shuddering breaths. So he continued, hands dipping lower into his grieves.

A soundless moan, signaled only by a rush of air from those pretty, parted lips came when he gripped then base of the shaft. Not taking his eyes off the elf while he stroked, he memorized the way he stared back at him through his lashes, dusty purple and pink blush spreading across his face and chest. If only, he lamented, if he met his little elf sooner before…. Before… The image of a ghostly face spotted with blood intruded, obfuscating the present. He was back in The Reach, passing by men groaning in pain. He found his eyes drifting to the back where the most wounded lay. Somehow he was drawn to the back, where one of his stormcloaks laid at the bedside of an elf. His elf, broken and covered in blood. His elf, still, a halo of blood stained hair spread on the meager pillow. Lips pale and kissed by Arkay. His elf - his whole body almost ripped apart. Barely stitched and mended together by healers. “Ralof of Riverwood.” He murmured eyes never leaving the elf. 

The man jumped up in his seat, blinking rapidly. “My Jarl!” Came the hoarse address. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to fall asleep.” He quieted, warily sending an apologetic nod to a healer who glared at him. “Are we moving out already?”

“No.” He nodded towards the elf. “What happened?”

Ralof of Riverwood bit his lip and clenched his fists. “It was my fault. Those damn imperials - two of them came up behind me, and…” His voice gave out, trembling. “He pushed me out of the way before -”

“You needn't continue.” 

Ralof's eyes snapped back to the elf, and his had too for the pained gasp that came from the elf, reaching up, towards  _ him _ . In his eyes he saw misery. Determination. Pain. Yet, he held on, fighting Arkay's embrace. 

He did not know what compelled him to hold the boy’s hand. Perhaps it was pity. Or the gods decided to bestow upon him a cruel joke for his neglect of his dunmer citizens. For, from that moment on his little elf occupied his thoughts. For what reason could him to come under his command? Surely he must have had every reason to despise him. For it was not his people who suffered, but the elves in the grey quarter as Jorleif had told him. 

Soft noises lead him away from his thoughts. His little elf had moved closer, and was shyly kissing him on the cheek. 

“I… it's alright…” He whispered hoarse. Wide and sincere, his little elf held his gaze. 

He inhaled deliberately, recalling the meditation exercises drilled into him by the Priests of High Hrothgar. But there was perhaps no greater balm for his concerns than the way his elf expected nothing from him. It was almost disturbing how he could devote his attention to his little elf despite his previous morbid thoughts. Watching with rapt interest how he shifted and squirmed during their nightly rituals. How lost he became in the other, until their need grew too great. And the would join together, stifling their cries in the darkness until they reached their climax. 

His elf would lie still while he drew back, laying beside him, chest heaving. After a long moment he would rise. Collecting each article on clothing, piece by piece. 

Gripping his elf’s wrist before he could retrieve his scarf. He wanted to whisper to him. To implore. It was on the tip of his tongue, the simple plea to  _ ‘stay’ _ . His elf said nothing, merely tilting his head in head in question. Slowly he released the limb, and quietly bid him goodnight. 

The tent flap closed behind him, a gust of wind blowing out the candles and leaving him with nothing his thoughts. Tonight, his elf would go down to the stream and wash any evidence of their encounter. He would return to his tent, and resume his duties in the morning. He would regard him as a nothing more than his Jarl and soon to be king, pretending that they didn't play out the role of lovers in the dark of the night. 

And he would wake with the sun, ready to command his troops. Not revealing the bitterness in his heart when he caught a glimpse of his elf whispering more words into the attentive ear of one Ralof of Riverwood than the elf had ever uttered to him within the past few months. He would feign disinterest when his other men would spit in the elf’s direction. And if he should find his pale beauty on the ground amongst corpses, to be feasted on vultures and his beauty eaten away by maggots he would shed no tears. He would show no fear of the idea. 

Not even the next night. 

Where he would cast asides the days concerns from watching him spar that the elf was becoming thin, and how his spirit waned each day. How he wished he'd never see him among the bodies that needed burying. He would entertain the foolish thought that he could bathe his elf luxury and adoration once the war ended. Never would he know the cage of starvation or the spite of men by his side, and in his bed. He could pretend he would take him as his own away from his ails. Knowing he would be crowned or executed while his elf would slip back into the slums as if he never existed. Perhaps even more scorned by his people for the banner he served under. He relaxed in his bed rolls. Resolved to see Skyrim free of its tyrants, where the blood of nords would no longer stain the earth. And the heavens would not weep for fallen brothers and sisters. The breeze howled outside, and it sounded strange to his ears. He ignored the sound, yet it grew louder and drummed against against his skull, becoming clearer. 

It was the gods laughing at him.  


End file.
